


Temptation is a Woman's Weapon and a Man's Excuse

by crazyparakiss



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Cross-Generation Relationship, Drunkenness, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 21:23:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3148985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyparakiss/pseuds/crazyparakiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neville’s wife has left him. He hits the bottle hard, but then he finds a new, very tempting, very forbidden distraction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Temptation is a Woman's Weapon and a Man's Excuse

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the NextGen Darkfest on LiveJournal in 2012
> 
> Not one of my better pieces, this just further proves I'm not good with cross-gen, but I was in a phase and I was trying my hand at it. It just took me a few fics to figure out this wasn't ever going to pan out. Hahah 
> 
> Also, in my fic Dominique is eighteen in her seventh year. Just really didn't want Neville being any more of a filthy old man, because I really kinda just love him.

For Neville solitude is less than amusing—loneliness, to him, is a slow and torturous decay. He tries everything he can to sate the rot, but in the end he comes back to the bottle. Down in the liquid he can blur his memories to a haze, and here they do not hurt him.   
  
However, come morning Neville is right back to where he started—miserable and terribly alone, with the added irritation of a hangover.   
  
He reaches for the top drawer of his bedside table. Sunlight streams into the shallow drawer and glints off of a slim gold band. Neville moves to touch the shining metal but stops before his fingertips brush against it—the gold will still feel cold. More proof that nothing changes.   
  
During his last class of the day, advanced Herbology with the Seventh Years, Neville wonders what he did wrong. For what feels like the billionth time he replays Hannah’s words in his head,  _“I’m not happy any longer, Neville—and sometimes I wonder if I ever was._ ” Seemingly, to him, the confession had come from nowhere—but now, months after the fact, he’s starting to wonder what clues he’d missed.   
  
“Perhaps I was too wrapped up in my own happiness to notice how miserable she was,” he mutters—unaware of the girl beside him.   
  
“Uh, Professor?” He looks down, into her wide blue eyes for a long minute before he realises she’s spoken and he’s been staring for longer than is comfortable or acceptable.   
  
Clearing his throat he says, “Yes, Dominique?”   
  
She’s aware of his discomfort and smiles, “I was going to tell you the class is finished with their work—they’ve all left early.” Dominique trails off; her eyes sparkling in a way that makes him furrow his brow. Then with a saucy curve of her lips she adds, “All but me, Professor.”   
  
He’s about to say something, but the words are lost when she steps closer. Her school robe is open, revealing her uniform beneath and his eyes are drawn to the creamy skin of her thighs. “Your skirt is too short—that could result in house points being taken.”   
  
Dominique’s grin is anything but innocent when she steps closer still, raising her hands to run across his covered chest, while she whispers, “Are you going to take points, Professor?”   
  
Maybe it’s the tickle of her warmth through his clothes, or perhaps it’s the lust in her tone, or maybe it’s the fact that he’s so incredibly lonely he can’t stand it—whatever the reason Neville snaps and before he can regain his senses he’s got a hand winding through her hair. Then his mouth claims hers in a rough, wet kiss. Her groan is swallowed by his greedy mouth while Dominique wraps her arms around Neville’s neck, biting and sucking on his lip as she tries to climb up his body. He stumbles back and bangs into one of the translucent walls—ignoring the ivy he’d toppled to the ground. Neville can’t think straight when Dominique’s hand cups his cock through his trousers. And she manages to melt his brain to mush when she slips to her knees before him. “Oh fuck,” he whispers as Dominique pulls the zip of his trousers down with her teeth.   
  
Her expression is positively lewd and so full of want Neville groans and he is rewarded with Dominique’s hand as she pushes down the elastic waistband of his pants to touch his hardening cock. Her palm is cool compared to the heated flesh of his prick and he can feel his pulse pounding through his cock—against her skin—he wonders if it turns her on, and fuck he hopes it does.   
  
Dominique’s tongue is pure sin—Neville’s sure when it curls around his cock. “Oh fuck,” he groans and buries his hands in her hair, it’s soft and long and strong enough to pull. He wonders briefly if she’ll appreciate him gripping it tight as he fucks her mouth—he wonders if she’d mind, but he doesn’t bother to ask because he’s this far gone already. He might as well make the most of it.   
  
As it stands she doesn’t mind, in fact, Neville’s certain she’s as turned on by him fucking her mouth as he is. Dominique’s hands move to hold onto his arse and he can feel her relax her throat as he thrusts into her welcoming mouth.   
  
“Fuck,” he chants, “Fuck gonna come, gonna come down your throat—fuck, fuck, fuck.” And soon he’s coming down her throat, like he said. When he falls to his arse, boneless and sated and more than a bit horrified at what he’s done, Neville watches her throat as she swallows—he’s half hard again when she licks her lips as if she enjoys his taste.   
  


***

  
  
He’s down in the bottle again—Neville’s vision is swimming with a haze of colours, shadows, and light. The bed feels too soft beneath him as he struggles to sit up, and Neville’s groping around for his flask on the bedside table—his hand bumps it and the shiny metal clatters to the ground. Leaning over the side of the bed he can smell the alcohol’s sharp scent in the carpet and he grasps the flask before sitting up as quickly as he can manage.   
  
Neville’s head swims and he pinches his eyes closed while gently massaging his temples. What he’s doing doesn’t help; he’s as pissed as he was moments before and if anything he feels sicker. “Lovely,” he mutters to himself while his long fingers snatch up the flask—leaking whiskey on his rumpled duvet as he holds it up. Neville’s face is reflected against the chrome and he’s disgusted by what he sees—a man with dark bags under his eyes, a man in desperate need of a shave, a man who looks far older than he should: Neville’s become the sort of man he swore he’d never be.   
  
In these moments of self-loathing he sees Dominique’s face and his disgust triples. “Fuck what have I done?”   
  


***

  
  
It’s been seven days since The Greenhouse Incident as he likes to call his  _moment_  with Dominique. Six and a half bottles of gin gone from that time until now, and Neville marvels at how easily he’s fallen into the role of a functioning drunk. He’s certain his gran’s rolling in her grave and that thought makes him want to rush to the arms of another comforting bottle.   
  
He’s spared the need for drink when he turns down an aisle in the library, looking for a specific volume on a particular plant—he knows why he’s at the library, he’s certain there’s a purpose, but he can no longer recall why he’s in a dusty aisle of books and Neville knows  _she’s_  to blame. He’s convinced she knew he was coming or else she’s the loosest bit of skirt he’s ever run across. Dominique’s got her legs open and is leaning against the shelves, her pale fingers toying with the gleaming skin of her slit when he happens upon her.   
  
“My God,” Neville whispers and her eyes flutter open while she pulls at her bottom lip with her teeth, moaning in an exaggerated way but Neville’s cock doesn’t care. The bastard’s already at attention, hoping to feel Dominique’s talented mouth on him once more.   
  
“Professor,” she pants, “Won’t you come correct my technique?” Dominique pulls her fingers away from her snatch and lifts them to her lips, tasting them with a reverence Neville wants to see while she’s on her knees. She’s fluttering her eyelashes again—long dark mascara painted lashes—as she speaks, “I need you to show me how to do it right, please won’t you teach me, Professor?”   
  
Goddamn it! He cannot help himself when he steps closer to her, Dominique’s scent invading his senses as soon as he’s close enough to touch.   
  
His fingers are in her, of their own accord, and Neville groans from the hot wet feel of her fanny. “Fuck,” he moans, hooking his fingers inside her, experimentally stroking her and mapping her with his fingers—watching her face to see how he’s affected her.   
  
“Would you like to fuck me, Professor?” He should say  _no_ —Neville knows this and he’s certain she knows this, but neither wants that option.   
  
“Yes,” he breathes against her warm floral scented throat—jasmine and magnolia—“Yes, wanna feel you on my cock.”   
  
Her hand is warm on his prick as it guides him into her and she gasps out when he’s buried to the hilt. “Move, Professor, quickly.” Dominique’s arms are around his neck, her legs are wrapped tightly about his waist, and her mouth moves over his in a claiming, possessive kiss. Faintly Neville can taste her fanny on her tongue.   
  
He tries not to stare at his come as it slides down the insides of her thighs, but he can’t help watching his seed as it claims her skin.   
  
“Better pray I don’t get pregnant, Professor.” She’s wearing a rather coy smile and he’s having a minor freak out. He can’t father a kid—especially not with a kid of eighteen, Harry would kill him, Bill would kill him, Ron would kill him—he’d have the massive ginger army, plus Potters looking to string him up by his bollocks.   
  
“Oh fuck—what if you are,” he says and she rolls her eyes in response.   
  
“Don’t get all panicky on me—I’m not that stupid, you know.”   
  


***

  
  
It carries on like this for ages. He drowns his sorrows in gin or whiskey after he’s touched her and she winds up leading him right back between her legs. The encounters come closer and closer together until at last there is no time he is alone. He’s either bollocks deep in Dominique or he’s teaching a class. Forgetting the bottles buried beneath his bed, the ones hidden in his bedside cabinet, and the ones hiding in his wardrobe—anymore all Neville can think of is the feel of Dominique’s skin.   
  
Tonight he’s got her over the arm of his sofa and is thrusting into her hard and deep while she’s arching as much as she can, begging for him to go faster. Neville’s watching the fire play an array of oranges across her skin.  _This is heaven_. For now this is perfection and helps to keep him sane.   
  
Neither of them knows that in the morning things will change—Headmaster Gorbin will call Neville to his office, and he’ll be sacked. Dominique will go home to her parents and soon a detailed letter of shame will follow. Neville will hit the drink hard, again. He’ll receive at least three howlers, and Dominique will be given the longest lecture of her life.   
  
But none of that will matter. For they will never stop; in the darkened seedy corner of a pub she will find him and the dance of temptation will begin once again.


End file.
